Dog Days
by sausuge
Summary: Prompted short stories about Detective Deeks and his time with NCIS: LA, especially involving his partner-in-crime, Kensi Blye. Some action, some romance, some solely about his hair. Come take a look.
1. Chapter 1

So, I've recently gotten into NCIS: LA because I LOVE Eric Christian Olsen and his character. Love him so much in fact, that when I found this table of 346 writing prompts (at www dot creativewritingprompts dot com, in case you wanna check it out), I found I kept relating them back to Deeks and lovely partner Kensi. Thus, I decided that for as long as I can will be filling out these prompts with a Deeks theme. I'm not promising to do all of them (in fact I KNOW I won't :P) but I'm hoping to do 5-7 a week (hopefully one a night), and to post them every Wednesday. Most will be about Deeks or Kensi or Deeks/Kensi, so uh, if that's not your cup of tea, terribly sorry. Also, they were originally intended to be short drabbles, somehow they turned into short one-shots, mostly because I couldn't make Marty shut up… I'm going to work on that, so one day these chapters will probably end up being shorter. haha

So! Um, here it is! :D

The number and basic point of the prompt is in bold.

**Spoilers for Personal**

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**#172: Random Stimuli: "Blue ribbon fading hysterically":**

When she finally gets to him, she already knows it's too late; knows that no matter how hard she pushes down on the gaping wound, no matter how much she pleads with him, or how much she screams, Marty Deeks will still die.

Those deep blue orbs will fade and glaze over, the wispy smirk he currently has on his face will slacken to a relaxed frown, and the soft "Kensi…"s he's muttering will echo away until she never hears that voice say her name again.

As his breathing gets more ragged, and the intense red that flows out of him covers her more and more, she can feel the always-tenuous string that had linked the partners together begin to slacken. Its previously taught pressure ebbs away and its frayed edges relax as Deeks' body does the same.

She vaguely registers the hysterical screaming echoing through the building and thinks somewhere inside herself that that hideous sound must be coming from her. All she can really hear though is the deafening last murmurs of her partner as the blue that had so often lit up her life faded away.

"Kensi."

888

**#260: A Chest of Childhood:**

She doesn't know what she's expecting when he says he "spent some time there". She vaguely pictures a house rented out by slacker college students, with toga parties every weekend and conspicuously covered holes in the walls. When they arrive at the modest suburban home she's in no way surprised by the overgrown lawn or chipped paint; those sorts of details seem to come naturally with a man who looks like Marty Deeks.

What does surprise her is the "MARTY" childishly scrawled into the once-wet cement of the curb and left to dry, permanently marking the territory in front of them as his own. Despite Deeks' admittedly horrible handwriting, it's easy to see that the writing must have been done by a small child.

As is often her reaction in regards to her partner, Kensi Blye scrunches her brow together and sends a sidelong glance to him, letting out a keening "Deeks?"

Her partner ignores her, though by the look in his eyes, she can see it's not intentional. They make their way to the front door, Deeks in the lead with Kensi trailing hesitantly behind him. The house's entrance is unlocked, allowing the two agents to smoothly enter the small abode. Kensi is struck by how understated and quaint the place is. The living room and kitchen are practically one room, separated only halfway by a thin wall, and the spacious living room is sliced in half by a 'partition' made of bookshelves obviously put in by the current residents to create the illusion of a 'dining room'. A small hallway to the right of the kitchen leads to what she can see is a bathroom and seemingly two small bedrooms.

Deeks' eyes are no clearer than they had been on the sidewalk, so Kensi makes no further attempt to reach him, only watches him docilely and follows closely behind him as he makes his way through the small house. He glides through the living/dining room, and hardly even glances at the kitchen, walking purposefully toward the short-lived hallway. He pauses momentarily to stare at the bedroom on the left side of the hallway. The door is closed, but she assumes from the keyhole in the doorknob that it is the master bedroom of the house. Deeks makes no move toward the door, only stares ineffectually at it before letting out a small puff of air and turning to the right and opening the keyhole-less door. The room is revealed to be a smaller, nearly cave-like place. It's concaved and enclosed, with only a small window in the back of the room, hidden behind a bunk-bed and colorful curtains.

Kensi can tell the small twin sons of Lt. Barstow inhabit the room based solely on the dirty clothes littering the floor and the questionable amount of pieces of action figures strewn about the room. Besides cartoon themed comforters and gaudy posters, there isn't much to the room at first glance. Following Deeks' distracted gaze, her eyes land on a far wall with faded markings clearly written on the paint. Some of the lower marks seem to be fresh, and with a start she realizes the marks are measurements. Besides the lowest one (which is marked "_1986: Batman! 5 enchs"_), the lower, newer markings must be of the Barstow twins, she realizes. Moving closer she reads the dates of the older markings closely.

The markings start at 1983, where one "M.D." is marked as being two feet nine inches and three years old. Every year for eight years, M.D.'s height and age were marked down on the wall. The only difference between the measurements, she notices, is the hand writing. Where it started out smooth and curly, clearly written by a woman, it soon becomes the same chicken scratch scrawl seen on the curb outside.

The last marking on the wall is simply the date May 9, 1991. Doing the math quickly in her head, she realizes with a heavy heart that that would make little Marty eleven. She thinks about Gordon John Brandel. She thinks about the stories Deeks told while they were in the desert.

_Oh Marty…_

Turning a sympathetic eye to the last place she'd seen her partner, she's surprised to instead see the tall man bent over near the closet in the room, feeling his fingers around the edge of the wall. She wants to inquire about what exactly he's doing, but she's too concerned about that far away look in his eye, and Gordon John Brandel, and "_spent some time there?_" to ask.

Soon enough his fingers seem to catch on something, and with a triumphant huff he uses the tips of his fingers to pull up a plank of the wood flooring. Looking down into the small hole now visible in the floor boarding, he lets out another huff of air, this time with a seeming reluctant acceptance. He reaches down into the abyss and slowly lifts out a dusty tin box. Like with the master bedroom, he freezes completely as he contemplates the item. Kensi pauses with as much trepidation as Deeks seems to, waiting with baited breath for his signal to move again. When he finally relaxes and starts to move into a seated position on the floor, Kensi slowly makes her way over to him, first leaning over his shoulder, than moving into a similar, cross-legged sitting position next to the LAPD liaison.

The tin in his hands is a Transformers lunchbox.

She wants to giggle or tease him- to tell him how much she loved that cartoon as a kid, how she remembers waking up early to watch it with her dad- but she knows that right now isn't the time. Deeks isn't really _here _right now, just like to him, she's not even a distant thought in his subconscious; right now she's simply an observer. Instead she sits quietly as he first runs a finger around the side of the lunchbox, than blows away the top layer of dust with a single breath.

The unclasping of the metal hinge and the lifting of the lid seem to take forever in Kensi's mind.

The box is filled mostly with toys that a little boy would keep hidden safely away—a little C-3PO figurine, a bouncy ball, a few wayward Legos, some Power Ranger trading cards, a box of matches. He pulls them out one by one staring at them and running a finger along them, sometimes smiling at them, other times simply contemplating them. He sets them neatly in a row next to his leg as if presenting them for Kensi to look at.

At the bottom of the box, once all the toys are removed, are two pictures. The one on top Deeks hardly looks at. He pulls it out, quickly glances it over with shining eyes, and puts it on the ground next to C-3PO. It's a beautiful young blonde woman, wearing a dark blue dress with white polka dots on it and a clearly pregnant belly under it.

The next picture he pulls out slowly, staring at it with a mixture of awe and hatred. In the picture, a small boy stands on a wooden pier with his father, both dark haired and smiling at the camera. The date on the picture is 1986, and from the different dates between the pictures, she figures little Marty Deeks to be no more than six. He's adorable with his wide blue eyes and his brown hair, but she can't get over the fact that five years from then, those wide, innocent eyes would shoot a man.

"This loose floorboard was the coolest when I was kid." His far away gaze doesn't break from the picture he's holding. "Was pretty cool in high school too, though I was hiding more than action figures and cards then."

She smiles sadly, but doesn't say anything in response. She doesn't want him to have to force humor on this moment for her sake, even though she's not sure exactly what this moment is. She just sits quietly and lets him stew in whatever it is that's going through his mind.

Soon enough he lets out another one of his huffs of air that can't quite be described as sighs, and puts the picture back in the bottom of the tin lunchbox. He assembles almost all the items back into the tin before shutting it and putting it back into its hidden resting spot, closing the dark maw over with the loose floorboard.

As he stands he carefully pockets the picture of his mother and the small C-3PO figurine. He takes a deep breath and looks down at his still seated partner. He smiles at her brightly before offering her a hand.

"Let's get down to work."

She can't help but think that she can see something in his smile this time that she wasn't allowed to see before.

888

**#42: Choose one of your physical features and write about how you can change or disguise that feature:**

Marty's hair was a big part of how people saw him. Thinking back on his childhood, he can remember when his mom still cut is hair at home, when bowl cuts were still kind of cool, and when his crisp, short locks had been the chestnut brown of his father. That look- the nerdy, helmet-head- will always remind him of innocence and safety; of a time when Mom and Dad loved each other; of a time when he could come home with an "A" on his spelling test and his father would look him in the eye and smile.

Those times did not last long.

The older Marty got, the more his parents yelled, the more his father saw a useless bane of his existence where his son used to be, and the longer Marty's hair got. Still the innocent brown of his childhood, Marty's hair grew out, wild and unkempt from neglect since his mom was usually too drunk to be safe around scissors and his father hardly even looked in his direction, let alone long enough to notice his hair. Marty clearly remembers the first time he cut his own hair. Nine and a half years old, putting his mom to bed on the couch after her latest three-day bender and vaguely wondering whether his dad would come home or not today (something Marty can also clearly remember "wondering" every day of his childhood). He remembers the annoying itch of the too-long hair, hair that had gone at least a year without a cut, with bangs past his cheekbones and hair brushing his shoulders he decides that cutting his hair is just another one of those things he's going to have to do himself now. It ends up jagged and unruly, some strands longer than others and some way too short. It wasn't dissimilar to his usual cut nowadays.

Marty bleached his hair three months after his father aimed a shotgun at him. It made him sick to look at the deep brown hair that shined back at him in reflections, so one day he decides to get rid of it, and does. His hair is only brown again once in his life, and only for the sake of a deep cover operation.

As an adult, Marty appreciates the flexibility of his hair more than anything else. As an undercover agent, he needs to be able to pull off a multitude of looks. From down-and-out bum, to slacker college student, to upper-crust yuppie; if there's one thing Marty Deeks can do it's change his looks (change _himself_) with a simple flick of his hair.

He keeps his hair unkempt and longish for a number of reasons. He's sure a psychiatrist would say he does it as a call-back to those times when he had to look after himself, sort of a badge saying "I did this myself and I'm proud of it", but Marty knows it's not that simple. The Shaggy look has many benefits to it. It not only gets the criminals to trust him easier (after all: no self-respecting cop would look like _that_) but it gives other cops a reason to hate him. The rest of the force takes his haircut as a declaration that he's not a real cop; hell, he's just barely one step above the criminals they put away. His hair compounded with his casual attitude make him into the sort of guy the rest of the LAPD would rather handcuff than work with. For Marty, his hair keeps him from being taken seriously, _protects him _from it really.

Somehow though, Henrietta Lang saw through his haircut. She saw past the purposefully-tussled, sun-bleached locks that have evolved as a self-preservation mechanism.

Whether that was a good thing or not—well, he's still figuring that one out.

888

**#161: Write a mini-story that begins with "They had nothing to say to each other:"**

They had nothing to say to each other. Needless to say, the nearly 40 minute drive back to NCIS OSP headquarters was less than pleasant with the impeding silence.

He played nervously with the frayed seams of his too-tight, classic blue jeans as they started entering the familiar territory around the NCIS HQ. He made to open his mouth, as if to hesitantly say something, but was cut off prematurely by the threatening glare she shot him at his attempt. Snapping his mouth closed he resigned himself to the uncomfortable silence as they completed their drive. The cut of the engine as they parked and the slamming of the car doors was nearly deafening to the two agents who'd been incased in awkward silence since-…

Well, since _the incident_.

Walking side-by-side, they made their way swiftly into the building and split to take their seats at their cattycorner desks, neither speaking a word to the other.

Had they been alone the matter would have been dropped then, neither being willing to ever bring the topic up again. Unfortunately for the two agents, the other members of their team, agents Sam Hanna and G. Callen, felt no similar need to sweep the awkwardness under the carpet. Giving each other matching suspicious stares, the two senior agents turned to their respective desk partners before starting in on their so-well-timed- it-was-practically-scripted questioning without breaking their stares.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah, G?"

"D'you hear about the incident at that storage locker Kensi and Deeks went to check out a little while ago?"

"Why no, G, I did not. Do tell."

"Well, turns out some pretty radioactive chemicals were being stored there. Apparently Agent Blye and Detective Deeks were exposed to said radiation, and had to be quarantined by the hazmat guys."

"Oh really? That sounds pretty serious."

"Nah, it wasn't so bad. The radiation levels weren't too harmful, but turns out high levels of exposure to it could lead to pretty bad skin lesions. An immediate chemical shower's the only thing that'll help with that."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yep. Unfortunately the hazmat guys only had one available chemical shower."

"So, I guess that means Agent Blye and Detective Deeks must have-"

"We don't want to talk about it!"

The brief silence after the in-unison-outburst of both younger agents was nearly as thick as the one left behind in the car.

But not nearly long enough in their opinions.

"Say, G?"

"Yes, Sam?"

"Wasn't Detective Deeks wearing black jeans this morning?"

888

**#67: In 300 words, write about "deceit":**

It'd been a little over a month since he'd seen his partner.

This fact unsettles him a great deal. For a long time he can't place why it upsets him so.

He thinks maybe it's because he's worried she could've been hurt by now, after all she doesn't have a partner to back her up and Kensi Blye can find so much trouble in four weeks he starts to sweat nervously just thinking about it. But at the same time, he realizes she can take care of herself, and had been doing so long before he met her.

He also considers that maybe it's because he's worried she'll think he's leaving for good. It seemed the men in Kensi's life had a track record of leaving her behind, though he can't for the life of him ever imagine why. That train of thought brings up too many risky (_emotional_) questions though, so he aborts that explanation as well.

It isn't until the second week of that month that he realizes why it bothers him so much: never before had he been so very conscious of how long he'd been under. Days, weeks, months; they all run together when undercover, all there is to concentrate on is the mission and your part. He never knows how long he's really been under until after the bad guys are behind bars and he's finally at his apartment sorting through weeks' worth of TiVo recordings.

But this time—this time he could tell you to the very _hour _how long he'd been under. Exactly an hour and twenty two minutes after he said goodbye to his partner and told her he'd "see her soon."

The acute awareness of time is killing him.

As he pulls up to the coffee house a few blocks down from her apartment, he reasons with himself that if he doesn't do this, if he doesn't at least _see_ her- sees that _she's okay_- he will literally explode, and that will be even more harmful to his cover than possibly being seen with a cop by one of the drug dealers he's currently trying to bust.

Not until he's practically standing right in front of her in that damn coffee shop, however, does he realize he's still sufficiently undercover. With his hair bleached a lighter blonde and chopped off shorter than it's been in years, the front upswept while the rest lay flat to his head- not to mention his scruff shaved off his face- he knows he looks completely different from what she usually sees. He looks like a completely different person- which is sort of the point of undercover work, he muses.

He changes his course subtly, walking by her instead of straight at her.

He buys a muffin and takes a seat at a table a few down from her, watching her out of the corner of his eye as he pretends to read the funnies. She's drinking coffee with a woman he's never seen before, but by the way they're laughing and the few snippets he manages to hear usually starting with "Do you remember when…" he assumes she's an old friend, college maybe. They're both dressed in somewhat professional clothing, as if they're both heading off to a board meeting afterward. Looking down at himself he's glad that for once, he's not just the grungy street dealer who works his way up the ladder, but a legitimate businessman- okay, a businessman in the business of drugs, but still, he's glad he got to wear a blazer that flatters the expanse of his shoulders and a dark blue button up instead of his usual beach wear or hobo get-up.

When he sees them start to show signs of leaving, he makes a quick decision and puts the ink of a pen from his pocket against a napkin on the table. Scribbling out his note, he stands and makes his leave discreetly, making sure not to attract any undue attention to himself.

He stands quietly around the corner of the coffee shop, waiting for the two women to make their appearance. When he hears the jangle of the shop door's bell he starts back around the corner at a fast pace.

3, 2, 1- Blam!

Just like he planned it.

"Oh geez!" She breathes out when they collide.

He reaches out quickly and steadies her with a hand on her mid-back. He can feel her tense up under his hand and for a second he worries that she'll pull some kung-fu move and rip his arm off or something, but when she moves her eyes up to meet his, he feels her breath hitch quickly and feels her start to relax.

"Sorry," She starts softly, "I didn't see you there."

Her forehead is furrowed slightly and she's looking at his face intently as if she's trying to place where she'd seen him before- maybe on the street, or maybe they went to high school together, hell maybe he's some two-bit actor she'd seen on TV one time- after all, it _is_ LA.

Deeks realizes his limited time and distracts her train of thought with a small pat on the back and a warm smirk before consciously making his voice slightly deeper than usual , putting a different cadence to his speech, and saying "That's alright; seems I missed you, too." He kicks himself when he slips up and hesitates before adding on the 'too'.

He realizes and accepts that he misses his partner- though not happily. He also realizes and accepts that the feeling is undoubtedly not mutual. He knows from previous experience that people don't miss Marty Deeks.

_Now's not the time,_ he thinks to himself. He slides his hand from her back to her waist, quietly dropping the scribbled napkin-note into her pocket under the guise of righting her into a proper standing position.

"Well, you ladies have a good day," he makes a quick exit before the too-bright mind of his partner figures him out. As he strolls in the opposite direction, he hears the excited whispers of two women who liked what they saw.

Smirking, he relaxes as the stressed stopwatch in his head calms down and stops reminding him how long it's been since he'd last seen his partner, apparently satisfied with the limited interaction.

Still- he'd love to see the look on her face when she realizes it was him.

* * *

In case you can't picture that last image of Deeks, google Eric Christian Olsen and Not Another Teen Movie. It's a trip that's for sure. :P

Please review if you can, I'd really enjoy some feedback on characterization especially. How should I change it to make it seem more like the characters? Right now it's pretty dark, hopefully with more light pieces, it'll sound more like them.

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!


	2. Chapter 2

Argh, sorry for the delay. Geez, the first week of supposed updates, and I missed it, what a loser. :p

Well, as compensation I wanted to share that I found this awesome tumblr for Kensi and Deeks: fuckyeahkensideeks(dot)tumblr(dot)com/

The site's awesome and has amazing graphics and insider scoops, which is always nice! :D It does not have much foul language if the URL is kind of scaring you off; that's just a tumblr thing.

So, down to fic shall we? Just so you know, the first fic was totally run by the song Empty Bottles by Tangent Transmission, which is a song actually featured in NCIS: LA. Check out that song if you can! It's awesome. :)

**Spoilers for Personal**

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#303: Make this the first line of your story:

Catching the signal from one of her friends, "Angela" brushed her skirt, took a deep breath and walked towards where _he_ was sitting.

She puts a breezy smile on her face and a sway in her hips as she makes her way to his floppy-haired head. When Deeks stands up from the table, hands up in surrender and his 'schmoozing' smile on his face, she realizes whatever G and Sam had heard over the comms had escalated quickly in the brief time since they'd signaled her, not moments before.

She makes it to her partner—Derrick Slater this time—and lands sloppily on his elbow, giggling drunkenly and resting on his shoulder. The three lugheads still seated at the table hardly even register her arrival. They're accustomed to her now after all; she's just Derrick's lush of a girlfriend, she poses no threat what-so-ever to them.

What a surprise they're in for.

"Listen, guys, there's no need for anything extreme. Just give me one more day and I'll get you the stuff, no problem." His voice sounds tense and breathy; she knows that means he expects trouble. She braces herself and signals that she's got the big guy on the left by squeezing his left hand which is now at his side tensing into a fist.

"One more day, huh?" the guy directly across the table from her partner says. He's got some kind of cliché Italian accent that makes her want to role her eyes, but she hides it by burying her face in her 'boyfriend's neck with another stupid giggle. "That's good, Slate, as a matter of fact that would be ideal, but you see: your boy was already two days late with my product. It's understandable that you would have some minor delays after I… relieved you of his employment, thus the reason I gave you a previous extension. And yet, here we are, and you are still late with my product. I find this unacceptable. And while I like you, I truly do Slate, my boy, you have to understand that I'm running a business, and my business is conducted with very…" he pauses as if to think about his word choice. The men at his side shift to gain better access to their weapons. "strict procedures." The man smiles greasily at Deeks.

"So, you see, I have to make an example of you to keep up my business protocols. It's nothing personal, Slate. Just wrong time, wrong place, my friend. You understand, right?" The slimy smile stays in place as he stands up and fixes his coat.

Deeks lets out a grin that Kensi nearly classifies as feral before rumbling out "Of course, Ronnie. The business world is harsh."

Ronnie chuckles and grins at Deeks like he's his favorite nephew or something then leaves a bill on the table and turns around with a flighty "another time, Slate." as his men stand up from their seats and reach into the jackets for what are sure to be glocks.

And just like that Kensi and Deeks are in motion. Kensi kicks out, pushing the chair the thug to her left had been sitting in into the back of his knees, sending him crashing back into it and his gun to the ground. When he jumps back up from the seat she kicks out again, this time tripping him up and sending him forward instead of back. She helps his fall along by grabbing the back of his sweaty, bald head and smashing it against the table as he falls, his limp head landing next to the gun she promptly grabs up.

Simultaneously, Deeks had reached to his right, grabbing lughead number two's lower arm as it had extended outward to shoot him and twirling the appendage around. The thug's hand automatically let go of the gun as his arm was sent into angles it was never meant to reach. In an automatic defensive reaction, the thug's free arm grabbed toward the detective. Deeks quickly trapped the attacking arm under his own, pulling the thug in close enough to land a harsh head-butt to the man's thick skull. The man stumbled back in shock, freed from Deeks' grasp only long enough to be knocked unconscious by the same fist that had previously been holding him captive. Deeks had the crook's gun off the floor before he'd even hit the ground.

Both guns pointed at the back of the slimy drug dealer across the table from them.

"And I hope you understand, you long-winded bastard, that _this_ is entirely personal."

888

**#304: Write a story about power with a policeman as the main character and an old pair of shoes as the key object. Set your story in the [hospital room]****:**

Sitting laconically on the side of his bed, the LAPD detective tries to muster the strength to lean forward and pick up his running shoes.

After the struggle that was getting on the rest of his clothes, however, his body has pretty much declared mutiny and isn't falling for any of his bullshit. He lets out a sigh and spares himself a sympathetic wince before he pretty much throws himself forward and lets his arms flop in front of him in an action that bares a slim resemblance to actually bending over and reaching.

He involuntarily lets out a pained moan as his bullet wounds, just barely beginning to scab over, stretch and protest the stressed position. He flails his arms about and ceases breathing while he tries mightily to hook a shoe with his flailing fingers. Hooking one, he lets his breath out as he pulls his upper half back upright.

Panting to catch his breath, he glances down to the shoe in his hand which only causes the burning of his wounds to intensify. His old running shoes, shoes he must have had for going on four years now, are covered in his own browning blood. Splattered like bad art, it covers the toes of the shoe, probably from the first shot, when he'd still been standing.

He can see it all clearly now, no longer clouded by good pain meds. He's sucked back into it; the shock of the hit, the confusion of looking up at the malicious eyes above him, the numb pressure of his chest, the fear of that gun pointed at his head, the _regret_ of- of everything.

"Hey, you decent?"

Part of him wants to turn to her and point out what a pointless question that is, considering she's already in the room, but a larger part of him keeps him still, trapped by the memory of being shot.

He can see her fidget slightly out of the corner of his eye as he contemplates his shoe. That could have been all that was left of him. If they had wanted him instead of Kensi, all that would be of Detective Marty Deeks is a pair of bloody sneakers sticking out of a white sheet on a convenience store floor.

How sad.

He sighs and tosses the shoe back to the ground where he'd painstakingly fished it from. Kensi fidgets a few moments more before making her way into the room fully and sitting on the bed. She opens her mouth a few times, like she really wants to say something, but in the end she simply closes her mouth and turns to the bag Deeks finally notices she brought with her. He glances over to watch what she does.

Eventually she turns back to him and holds up a pair of blue slip-on Vans he recognizes as his own. He only wonders how she got into his home—or for that matter how she knew where he lived at all—for a moment before he sees a very familiar piece of technology wrapped around her wrist ticking away, as it used to do for him.

His watch. On her wrist.

A new feeling takes up residence in his chest at that thought, one he doesn't particularly want to think about right now, so instead he focuses on the helpless look on her face as she offers him his shoes.

He smiles gratefully at her and takes them, slipping them on as he stands.

"How'd you know I'd need my slip-ons?" he asks, not really interested in the answer.

"I told you I'd been shot before. I wish I'd had some slip-ons back then; man, it was killer to ties those laces."

"Oh, really? You know, that fits very well with my 'shot in the butt' theory." He smiles as she walks beside him as they make their way out of the room. He's acutely aware that those damn running shoes are still on the floor behind them, but he really doesn't care as he makes his escape.

"I'm so not going there, Deeks." He does a fake pout which makes her smirk at him. "Maybe next time, partner."

He thinks maybe next time he won't have so many regrets.

888

**#152: "Ice water in her veins" for three minutes:**

He waits patiently with his hands in his pockets outside her door. He rocks slightly on his heels and feels his chest tighten in anticipation and anxiety.

He listens as her footsteps come closer to the door. He can hear when she reaches the threshold and leans against it to look through the peephole. An almost apologetic smile comes to his face as he glances at the peephole, and he imagines hearing the angry sigh he knows she lets out upon seeing him.

The door unlocks and swings open to reveal her mismatched eyes already glaring at him. His smile fades to a grimace.

God, he'd hoped this time they wouldn't have to fight.

"You're late."

"I know, my paperwork took longer than I thought it would, and there was an incident down at the precinct-"

"Jesus, Marty, I don't need to hear your excuses. If you'd just get here on time for _once in your life_ then-"

"What are you talking about? I'm not late every time! Besides, why do you have such an issue with me being late? What, you can't spend twenty more minutes with your own-"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence! Besides, if you cared _at all_ you'd be here on time. Instead you half-ass it like you do everything else."

"I never half-assed anything when it came to you. Just because what I offered wasn't enough doesn't mean that _this_," he gestured between them with a wave of his hand, "was my fault. If there's one thing I've tried at in my life, it was us."

One day, long ago, that sort of line, the sincerity in his eyes, and bitter longing in his voice would have made her cave. She would have huffed, slumped her shoulders, pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes and that would be that. She'd forgive him, they'd have dinner, and everything would be the same except for when they'd hold each other a little tighter that night.

But there've been too many fights like this now. So many that no sincerity or heartfelt admission will ever warm the ice water in her veins when it comes to Marty Deeks.

"Well you didn't try hard enough."

It cuts him deep to hear her say that; to hear her confirm one of his greatest fears. That deep, wounding type of vitriolic comeback was one of the reasons they'd gotten the divorce. They knew each other too well. As their love had faded, they knew just where to stick those harsh lines to inflict the most damage. The constant warfare being waged in their home was just too much to handle in the end. Besides, they'd both agreed (for the first time in a long time) that the constant arguments were no way to raise-

"Daddy!"

The puff of brown hair that flies from behind his ex-wife and barrels into his stomach cuts off his train of thought along with any harsh comeback that had been bubbling in the back of his mind. Glancing up at Kensi, he sees that old familiar light in her eyes, full of love and warmth, as she looks down at the giggling bundle of energy in his arms.

"Hey, Munchkin," He smiles down at his beautiful daughter, "How've you been?"

888

**#71: Write about a memory related to a holiday:**

It used to be him enduring a silent and tense home. His mom slaving diligently over a stove to make his father's favorite meal. Secret smiles as she passed him bits of the meal before it was ready. The sound of the front door slamming as his father left to the nearest bar.

It used to be him bringing home a lukewarm meal from the restaurant where he makes just enough for them to be comfortable along with the help of their government check. His mom already passed out on the couch, volatile and unlike herself if he tried to wake her.

It used to be overtime at the precinct for as long as they could stand him, then off to the nearest homeless shelter. Cheery smiles from middle-aged women, always grateful for any help they could get. An evening call to his mother('s answering machine) before watching A Charlie Brown Christmas and drifting to sleep alone.

Sometimes it was being a guest at one of those homeless shelters when he was forced to keep his cover over the holiday.

Sometimes it was having a beer with a scumbag suspect to 'celebrate the season'.

Sometimes it was putting that scumbag in cuffs and behind bars.

Now it's taking her with him to the shelters. Bumping into her and bantering with her as they fill empty plates. Sitting on her couch eating ice cream and beer while watching It's A Wonderful Life.

Now it's them.

888

**#247: Use all these words in a story: detective, cart, backseat of a car, toy car:**

This was not how Detective Marty Deeks had pictured he'd go.

In a John McClane-esque fiery explosion while saving a bus-load of kids? Sure.  
In a dramatic stand-off with a suspect, guns a-blazing when the clock tolled noon? Why not.  
Surrounded by beautiful supermodels who all adored him? Most definitely.

'Bleeding out pathetically in the backseat of car while his partner tried to return enemy fire and simultaneously treat his gushing (and _incredibly, incredibly _painful) stomach wound' was not in his life plans.

"This is so _not awesome_." He shouts (or moans, whatever) over the unbelievably loud claps of gunfire.

"You're gonna be fine Deeks, don't freak out on me." She sounds breathless and pretty freaked out herself, but the detective is far too absorbed in his _gaping bullet hole_ to really take note of her tone.

"_Fine_?" he parrots incredulously, "Are you kidding me! I saw _Reservoir Dogs_, okay? I know how scenes like this end, Kensi! Charming, handsome protagonist sacrifices himself heroically, only to die a sad, dramatic death in the back of a _stupid toy Ferrari_ to give his partner the strength to finish off the bad guys and avenge said protagonist's _death_!"

Oh- did he forget to mention that? The vehicle he's half hanging out of makes pathetic "thunk" sounds as the enemy bullets shoot into (and sometimes through) the flimsy plastic and steel of the miniature toy car. The bright red plastic is really all that stands between his partner and the terrorists across from them in the small toy store.

"This is so ridiculous."

"First of all," she starts as she pulls back from firing and reloads her clip while also exchanging the scraps of fabric over his bullet hole with fresher ones and placing his hands over the wound again with a quiet 'keep pressure on it', "'Charming and handsome' protagonist definitely excludes you."

He lets out an indignant snort/moan of pain.

"Second of all, did you fail tenth grade English? The protagonist is the main good guy, and the main good guy _never _dies." She's looking him in the eye now, and he gets the feeling the last part of that sentence is more of an order than friendly banter.

"If anything," she pops over the hood of the car again and three claps of gunfire serve as a pause before the rest of her sentence, "you're the expendable partner who's really only there for comic relief."

"Gee, thanks."

He catches a cheeky grin addressed to him before she's turning away and he hears another clapclap from her gun.

Not much ammo left and they're still pinned down.

Looking up from his prone position, he can see through the (toy) car window the position of the offending terrorists. Taking a quick look around his position, he takes inventory of his surroundings and their available weapons. It's not much but-

A sharp hiss averts his attention to his partner who is knelt, barely covered, by the hood of the miniature car. A sharp line of red across her upper arm tells him she's been clipped, despite her fierce look and return fire.

Alright then, he decides. Time to go up in that fiery explosion he'd been talking about.

Jettisoning himself up and moving almost entirely off of inertia, he quickly collects the supplies he'll need and swipes up his discarded weapon, then makes his way stealthily to the left side of the room, unseen thanks to his partner's unintentional cover fire.

Speaking of her: the sudden lack of complaining seems to grab her attention as she glances over and sees a stark lack of the detective.

"Deeks!" she shouts over the machinegun fire from the other side of the store, but she quickly realizes she can't spot him from her position. She lets out a loud curse and fires back in hopes of distracting them from her partner's position, wherever that is.

Just when she really starts to freak out about the missing Deeks, she looks up in time to see what looks to be a tiny, pink and purple sparkly play-cart rolling towards the terrorists. She squints incredulously at the item as it rolls itself almost perfectly in the middle of the three terrorists, slowly drawing each of their attentions.

Is- Is that a teddy bear in the cart?

It is indeed a teddy bear. A giant white teddy bear with a red bowtie around its neck, a pleasant bear-grin on its face, and a pinless grenade taped to its hand.

Her eyes widen at the same time that all the terrorists simultaneously drop their weapons to find the nearest cover. Just as she's about to follow their example, she sees her partner emerge from the same spot that the brightly colored cart had, gun in hand aimed at the two terrorists nearest him. Trusting her partner's actions, she ignores her instincts to _get the hell down, get the hell down now!_ and moves in towards the hostiles, covering his back and aiming her gun at the third attacker.

They cuff the suspects quickly enough, call in to update the status of their firefight, and start their wait for the others to come in and clean up the mess.

Kensi makes her way to her partner who is bleeding even more fiercely now, resting in a tiny Dora the Explorer chair. She realizes irately that _everything _in here is tiny and she hopes to never see another abnormally sized item again once they get out of here.

She holds up the stuffed white bear that had been their savior and flops it vaguely in his direction. "I take it this was your doing?" she asks incredulously.

He winces and grins at the same time, an action that's uniquely Deeks she thinks.

"You saved us with a Barbie shopping cart, a teddy bear, and a fake grenade?"

His cocky grin is only slightly diminished by the fact that his knees are in his ears because of his choice of tiny furniture and that he's now using a pink tutu to staunch his bullet wound. She can't help laughing.

"Yeah, yeah, this is all very funny to the person without a new vent in their gut. Can I go to the hospital now?" she never sees his pleased grin. Boy it takes a lot to make that girl laugh, he thinks.

She's still grinning when she bends over to help him up from the tiny chair. Ambulance sirens sound as she helps him to stand, "Sure, Mr. Pink, let's get you looked at."

They make their way out of the store as G and Sam pull up out front, ambulance just behind them. She laughs again as Deeks complains about being Mr. Pink, but mostly ignores him.

She also ignores the weird look G gives her when he sees the teddy bear she takes home with her that night.

* * *

That last one was so much ridiculous fun to write. 3 Hopefully it was just as much fun to read. I really utilized the action writing this time, which is a bad thing because I never write action. Haha Hopefully it wasn't too painful.

And about that third one, it was terribly painful to write, and I hope nothing like that ever happens, but well. I think on the pessimistic side of things I guess. Let's just say it's a horrible, depressing AU. :(

Also, there's a lot of simultaneously and incredulously doing things in this chapter. I'll have to cut back on that…

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!


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